My Dear Captain
by bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica
Summary: They were found like that in the morning, or what passed for it in space, each of them clinging to each other like a life raft in a choppy sea, faces smooth with no trace of nightmares, all evidence pointing to sweet, pleasant dreams. Cresswell one-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Here's an old Cresswell one-shot that I found. I wrote it ages ago; I must've forgotten about it. Anyhow, I hope it's properly fluffy. (I love Cresswell.) **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. (NOTHING.)  
**

 **Rating: T**

* * *

My Dear Captain

Cress Darnel crept down the corridor of the Rampion, her feet padding on the cool metal floor. She felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over her, nearly knocking Cress off her feet. For a moment, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. But as soon as she did – as soon as she dared to shut them for a millisecond – she saw it all over again. Trapped in that control room the night of Levana's assassination with no way out. Boxed in yet again.

Her eyes snapped open, and she noticed light slipping out from beneath a door. Everyone else on the Rampion was asleep, save for Lonnie, who was manning the control room in event of an emergency. And except for Cress, who was wandering the hallways like a madwoman. She couldn't even remember why she'd left her bed. Food, probably. Eating something sometimes helped her fall asleep. She had been about to head toward the galley kitchen and fix something to eat from the reserves of canned food and nonperishables; maybe some stale crackers and water. (Yum.)

But there was clearly someone else awake. Cress narrowed her eyes. Yellow light pooled out in the hallway, leaking from a crack in the door. She tip-toed closer. This was Thorne's room. From inside, she could just barely hear a _thud._ Her eyebrows creased, now just a little more lucid than she had been a few moments ago, and she cracked the door open.

Thorne _was_ awake. For a moment, she looked around his room. While she'd been expecting some sort of shmancy cabin, it was barely larger than the rest of the crew's rooms. A small bed was stashed in the corner, and there were posters up all over the walls—maps, dozens of them, some of the world, some of continents, some of countries, some of cities. Each map was covered in hastily scribbled circles, some with notes by them. On a map of Paris, she saw _Feb. 14_ written in sloppy handwriting.

But it wasn't the maps that caught her attention, not at first. It was Thorne. He was wearing a loose pair of pajama pants and a white cotton shirt that hugged his chest. Cress felt a familiar dryness spring up in the back her throat. She suddenly felt self-conscious in her plaid boxers and baggy t-shirt, her blonde hair mussed.

Thorne was standing in the middle of the room, a muscle in his jaw ticking. He was staring at what looked to be a long black cylinder hanging from the ceiling, and was wearing thick gloves on his hands. Before Cress could even say _hello_ , he slammed his fist into the cylinder. It went flying backward, slamming against the wall. Her eyes widened, and he threw a series of punches at the cylinder, making it swing back and forth. He was sweating, beads of perspiration snaking their way down the back of his neck.

He was _angry._ Cress hadn't ever seen him like this. He attacked the cylinder with single-minded purpose for a good five minutes, before he finally let it swing back into place, panting. He swiped away some of the sweat on his forehead. It was then that he looked up and saw her in the doorway.

"Cress," he said, voice strangled. He stripped off the thick gloves, tossing them on the floor, and scratched the back of his neck. "That is to say – I mean –" He winced. "How long have you been here?"

"Just a few minutes," she said softly.

He twisted his mouth to one side, and then Cress had to find something else to look at. His mouth was _not_ an option, not here in his room. She'd never even _been_ in his room, not in all the time aboard the Rampion. If she started thinking about his mouth with the bed sitting in the corner…

"Um," she said, eyes flicking around the room for something to land on. Not Thorne. His shirt was nearly plastered to his skin, and she did _not_ need that. His pajama pants were slung low on his hips—nope, not that either. His blue eyes were wide and just a little nervous, but in a frustratingly endearing way. Her gaze landed on the cylinder. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the hanging object.

 _Nice. Intelligent, Cress. Way to floor him._

"It's… It's a punching bag," he said, clearing his throat, his eyes unfocused as if he, too, were having difficulty not looking at her. She felt a warm flush creep up her neck and cheeks. "From the second era. Kind of like a sofa cushion, but harder. You put on the boxing gloves – these," he said, retrieving the thick gloves from the floor. "And you punch the bag. I think, anyway. It's supposed to alleviate stress, I guess. Make some of it dissipate."

She found that her eyes had strayed back to him, and found that his eyes had been drawn back to her, too. "What are you still doing awake?" she asked.

"I could ask the same of you," he said, his lips twitching.

Cress studied him. "I asked you first."

He raked a hand through his hair. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you that you kept me up most nights?"

"I don't want a lie, Thorne," Cress said, a little irked.

"It wasn't," he said quickly, and her heart stuttered. "Honest. That wasn't a lie."

"Oh" was the only thing Cress could think to say. There were a thousand more things she wanted to say, but mostly she just wanted to kiss him. Kissing him, however, late at night, in his bedroom, seemed more than a little bit dangerous.

"Now it's your turn," he said.

"My what?"

"Your turn," Thorne said, tilting his head. "Why are you up?"

She exhaled, leaning against the doorframe. "Nightmares," she said quietly. "Nothing new. Thought I'd go get something to eat in the kitchen, but then I saw that the light in your room was on, and I figured that…"

Thorne's gaze softened. "Come here," he said.

It was such a simple request— _come here_ —and Cress did it, because stars, she loved him. It was moments like this when Cress had trouble getting over just how much she loved him, moments like this when all she wanted to do was wrap her arms around Thorne and never let him go. Moments like this when Cress's willpower caved, and she found herself walking to him and wrapping his arms around his chest.

His arms encircled her, and she buried her face in his shirt. He smelled like Thorne—too-expensive soap and a faint hint of cologne and aftershave and now, sweat, because he'd been beating the shit out of something called a punching bag. She let out an involuntary sigh, and he stroked her hair. She closed her eyes, and for the first time, she didn't see the nightmares coming for her. She just saw darkness and felt _Thorne._

"I love you," Thorne whispered into her hair.

"I love you, too," Cress whispered back. "More than I think I probably should."

"I love you to Luna and back, Cress Darnel," Thorne said, holding her tighter before releasing her. Cress was about to squawk in protest, but then Thorne kissed her, and all she could think was _soft_ and _warm_ and _Oh my stars_ and _hmm._

"And," Thorne said, breaking apart, his eyes sparking with mischief, "you really do keep me up most nights."

"Shut up," Cress told him, and reached up on her tiptoes for another kiss. She could never quite get enough of kissing Thorne, no matter how often he kissed her, and he had a knack for stealing kisses. They broke apart, and Cress felt a wave of drowsiness, this one almost knocking her over. She closed her eyes, burying her face in his chest.

His laughter vibrated in his ribcage. "I get the feeling I'm not being used for my dazzling kissing skills so much as I'm being used for a pillow."

Cress smiled sleepily. "You make an excellent pillow."

"Really? When I'm sweaty and half-crazy from sleep deprivation?"

Cress opened her eyes. He looked exhausted – purple smudges lurked underneath his eyes, and he'd grown thinner in the past few weeks. She lifted her thumb and smoothed the creases in his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut, and he swayed a bit on his feet. "Even sweaty and half-crazy from sleep deprivation," she said softly.

Thorne opened his eyes, seeming reluctant to do so. His eyes flicked over to the bed in the corner, and Cress felt herself thinking about it wistfully, too. "So," she said, slowly. She met his eyes, nibbling her lower lip. "It's a long way back to my room."

"That it is," Thorne said diplomatically.

"And I'm really very tired. You've sapped my strength, you see."

His eyes waggled suggestively. "My tongue has a mind of its own—"

She swatted his chest. "Would you mind if I…" She trailed off. "Just… not, you know, actually… Just sleep, I mean?"

"Not at all," Thorne said. Cress sagged with relief. He reached over her and flicked off the light. His room plunged into darkness, and Cress leaned against him. She could feel him smiling as he kissed her hair. Before she could react, he swung her up easily and carried her over to the bed. She was asleep before he settled her down, their limbs entangled, covered in a mess of blankets.

Thorne shifted his weight, and Cress turned so that her cheek was pressed against his chest. "I love you, Captain," she said sleepily.

"Did you just call me Captain?" Thorne laughed a little.

"Shush," she said, stroking his hair. "You've earned it, my dear captain."

"I love you, too, Cress," Thorne said, his tone laced with drowsiness. "So much."

They were found like that in the morning, or what passed for it in space, each of them clinging to each other like a life raft in a choppy sea, faces smooth with no trace of nightmares, all evidence pointing to sweet, pleasant dreams.

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you all enjoyed it! Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So, after I posted that last one-shot, I realized I left a few loose ends open. Here's a sequel part that hopefully ties them up!**

* * *

My Dear Captain Part II

Cress woke in Thorne's arms, in Thorne's bed. He was asleep, his rough, unshaven cheek pressed into the hollow curve of her neck. She stiffened before relaxing, body sagging under the soft cottony sheets.

She tucked a stray curl of Thorne's hair behind his ear. It had gotten long, strands curling in at his collarbone. She liked his hair like this, wild and out-of-control.

Pressing a kiss to his temple, she slid out of his grasp and stood, wobbling unevenly for a moment before righting herself. It was dark in his cabin, and she groped around for a light switch. She didn't want to wake Thorne up, but on the other hand, she couldn't just stay here forever, either.

She finally flicked a switch, and a small lamp in the corner flickered on. Her eyebrows furrowing, she tiptoed over. The lamplight illuminated a wall covered in the same maps she'd caught glimpses of here and there the previous night, scrawl forgotten in the cocoon of Thorne's bed. Now, she leaned in to decipher their writing.

The map of Paris had a scrawl in black marker that read: _February 14. Date of second-era romantic holiday. Paris=city of love._

On the map of Dublin: _Picnic on hills. Bottle of wine & whatever Scottish people eat._

Sydney: _Opera house, July 6. Front-row seats. Pull strings with Cinder/Kai._

Moscow: _St. Basil's Cathedral; pierogi or whatever people eat there._

California: _Home._

She traced the streets with her fingertip, brow creasing. Her eyes flicked back to a sleeping Thorne sprawled out on his bed, hair mussed, mouth ajar in a silent snore. Cress had read romance novels where the hero or heroine was always beautiful in sleep, but as far as she knew, that wasn't true in real life. All of Thorne's abundant handsomeness dissipated with sleep. His pillow was wet with sticky drool.

She loved him even better for it.

A leather-bound portscreen was set on his desk. Curiosity rising, she picked it up gingerly, eyes narrowed. She was such a sneak. Years after she'd stopped sneaking around professionally, she still did it compulsively without even realizing it.

She slid it open—there wasn't even any password-protected barrier, not like it would've stopped her—and it went to a netlink.

 **Guilt is a complex emotion. There are many reasons why a person would feel guilty—guilt over an action, guilt over an action a person wanted to follow through but didn't, guilt over an action a person** ** _thought_** **they did, guilt over not helping someone enough, and guilt over doing something better than someone else.**

Cress stopped, hands stilled. She stared at Thorne for a long time. Guilt. Did he really feel guilty? Was that what the punching bag was for, trying to channel his guilt into something physical instead of beating himself up internally over and over again?

She closed her eyes. Stars, what was he guilty for? Had he done something bad? She ran through the list of the different kinds of guilt, mind whirling.

"Cress?"

She jumped, startled. Thorne was sitting upright in his bed, rubbing his eyes. She put her arms behind her back and set the port down on the desk again, plastering on a too-bright smile. "Good morning. How are you?"

He squinted at her, yawning. "You look like you just spiked yourself with some sort of happy drug."

She let her smile fade a little bit. "Uh, sorry."

He grinned, one corner of his mouth curling up. "Don't be sorry. I love it when you smile."

Her cheeks flushed. "I—Uh—"

His grin widened. "Crescent Moon Darnel, have I got you flustered?"

At the moment, she couldn't think of anything else to say but the truth, which was, "You've _always_ got me flustered."

Thorne pushed himself up, stumbling over and wrapping his arms around her waist. He nuzzled her neck affectionately. "See, now that's what I like to hear."

"Your head is big enough already," Cress said firmly, rolling her eyes. "Stars above, Thorne, I can't imagine—"

All at once, his expression changed, and he pulled back. He leaned over and picked up the port just centimeters away from her hand. His eyes met hers, his smile gone in an instant. "Did you take this?" He set his jaw. "Did you go snooping through it?"

She winced. "I didn't mean to."

Which, of course, was the exact wrong thing to say.

"Didn't _mean_ to?" Thorne's cheeks flushed. "How can you not _mean_ to go snooping through someone's portscreen, Cress?"

"I—" She swallowed. "I don't know."

He grabbed a fistful of his hair, closing his eyes, jaw clenching. "What did you read?" he said quietly. "And for stars' sake, Cress, don't lie to me. If you're going to dig through my personal things, at least have the decency to tell the truth."

She gulped. "I just read a paragraph, I swear."

"On what?"

Her shoulders folded in on herself. "On… on guilt."

He didn't say anything. He just looked down at his hands.

"Why are you feeling guilty, Thorne?" Cress asked, so soft she wasn't sure that he heard it at first. "What on earth could you possibly be feeling guilty about? I'm the one that should be guilty. I did go snooping through your port, after all."

His lips twitched with a reluctant smile, but as soon as it came, it left. "I think you should be going," he said abruptly, turning around, stalking back to his bed.

"I don't think I should."

Thorne's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

Cress was just as surprised as him—she wasn't the sort to make sudden stands of courage, but when she did, they were typically misguided and stupid. (Which was typical.)

"I don't think I should go right now," she said, voice growing more and more unsteady as the seconds ticked by. "I think we should fight. I think we should deal with this."

"With 'this'?" he repeated. "And what exactly is 'this'?"

"It's the guilt page on your port," she said. His face darkened dangerously, but she pressed on. "And the mysterious notes on the map on your wall, and the second-era boxing techniques in the middle of the night."

He folded his arms, clearly not receptive.

Still she pushed on, shoved a boulder up a hill with her wiry forearms. "And the fact that I went snooping through your portscreen even though I'm not supposed to be snooping like that anymore," she said. He arched an eyebrow, agreeing though he didn't verbally concede the point. "And the fact that I was wandering the hallways of the spaceship at night like a madwoman… What's that second-era novel again? Jane something?"

She plopped her hands on her waist, struggling for bravery. Stars, he looked judgmental. "If we don't talk about it now, Thorne, we never will. That's the problem with us. Neither of us, I don't think, has ever been in a real relationship before. And that's what people do in real relationships. They talk. Or, they're supposed to. I watched a lot of netscreen dramas in my years in the pod, you know. I know all this relationship caveat shit."

Dead silence.

And then: "You just swore." With no small amount of surprise. He looked almost astonished.

Cress looked down at her feet. "I know. I didn't… I didn't particularly like the way it sounded."

They stewed in awkward silence for a bit.

"You're right," Thorne said at last, sighing heavily.

Her head snapped up. "I am?"

"Don't sound so surprised," he said, lips twitching again with that rascally smile that made her knees wobble. "You're awfully smart, you know, for a socially stunted teenager."

She narrowed her eyes. "No wonder I'm being driven to swear."

He laughed, dissolving some of the tension in the room. "Look, I can answer a couple right off the bat. Those maps on the wall were for my grand plan."

Cress cocked an eyebrow. "Your grand plan?"

He scratched his head, suddenly awkward. "I promised you that I'd take you to see the world," he said. "And I have. I've shown you cities and things. But… a little while ago, I wanted to plan a little more. So I wrote notes for myself, things I wanted to do if and when we ever got a day off, or if we arrived in a specific city. Notes for outings. You know, to sort of make up for the time that you…" He trailed off. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Oh, Thorne," she said, neck flushed, lower lip wobbling. (Sleep deprivation. Probably.) "I don't know. I just… We're supposed to be communicating and fighting this out like a normal couple, but right now all I want to do is kiss you senseless for being such a softhearted gentleman."

His cheeks pinked, a surprisingly juvenile gesture. "Well," he demurred. "I don't think we're ever going to be ordinary, you and me. I mean, I'm an ex-convict and you're a shell. We were both an integral part of the Lunar revolution." He laughed, but it was halfhearted; forced.

She hugged her arms to her chest. "I have nightmares about being left in the pod."

"What?"

"I have nightmares," she said, shrinking back. "I think sometimes that I'm still in the pod, that this was all just a strange, fascinating dream, and Levana's still real, and I'm still working for Sybil, and Cinder never existed. That's why I was wandering the halls." She raked a hand through her hair. "Stupid, I know, but…"

"Not stupid," he said, shaking his head firmly. There was something in his eyes that she hadn't quite expected. There was sympathy, anger (at Levana and Sybil, presumably), heartbreaking pity. All this she had expected. But there was also an empathy in his gaze, as if he'd been spending more nights up, boxing just a few rooms away while she tossed and turned, than she'd known.

"I didn't mean to go snooping through your portscreen," she said now, "and I'm sorry."

Thorne kept her gaze, unnervingly steady. He was like that, Thorne. When he got determined, there was nothing—literally _nothing_ —that could stand in his way. "I have nightmares about shooting you," he said. "About holding the gun. About you bleeding, and me not being able to stop, and Kai screaming about Cinder, and Winter shrieking in the hallway as she lost her mind, Jacin struggling just hold her, and Levana choking on her own blood; that whole bloody scene that night. But mostly about leveling the gun at you, and not being able to stop." He looked away for a moment. "That's why I'm guilty, Cress. I almost killed you."

She stared at him, sure for a moment that he must be joking. But as the minutes dragged on and it became painfully obvious that he was anything but, she sighed.

She walked toward him, too-small feet padding on the cold metal floors. He was uncertain now, all of his unwavering courage whisked away with his startling confession. His iron nerves had carried him through his words, but not after.

She lifted up her shirt, exposing a pale, bone-white scar on her stomach. It wrapped around her ribcage, wicked and jagged, the stitches neat, the wound anything but. Thorne sucked in a sharp breath, cheeks the color of puce.

Cress was unsympathetic. She took his hand—his big, slightly hairy, long-fingered, tanned hand—and pressed his palm against her scar. His eyes were afraid, his body trembling, but as soon as his fingers splayed across her skin, he stilled. Calmed.

"I have too many scars to count," she told him. "Inside and out. I have the scars that Sybil and Levana left me, the scars that my parents left me, the scars that my old playmates in the tubes left me. Some are mental scars. Some you can see on my skin. You gave me this scar through no fault of your own." She held his eyes, clear blue and stunning. "It was not your fault. Do you hear me? It _was not your fault._ "

His breaths grew shaky. And so she repeated it.

 _"_ It was not your fault." She took a step closer to him, toes flush with his bare feet. They were burning hot, Thorne's feet, so contrary to her icy cold skin. "It was not your fault. _It was not your fault._ "

A tear slipped down over his cheek, landing suspended on his chin.

With her other hand, she cupped his cheek. "Oh, Thorne. You gave me this scar through no fault of your own, and you've healed so many others on the inside. You've been so good to me, so wonderfully good, so unimaginably heroic and romance-netscreen dashing that I can't even begin to tell you how grateful I am." She brought his hand up to her mouth and kissed it, soft and fleeting. "I love you, Carswell. I'm so, so, so grateful to have known you."

He took hold of his limbs again, and his hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, her body pressed against him. He kissed her, mouth searing and flaming hot against her cold lips, warming her from the inside out. They stumbled back down onto his bed, him landing with her in his lap, her legs wrapping around his waist almost instinctively.

"I love you," he said, smoothing down her hair, cheeks wet. "So much. _So_ much."

"So much," she agreed, kissing him again, leaning into him, letting go.

And this time, his bed was not used only for sleeping.


End file.
